The two figures emerged from under the mulberry tree. Clipboards and cameras in action, they walked slowly up the wide, uncut roadside verge. Zooming down the hill on my bike, I decided to stop. “We’re surveying the wild flowers,” they explained, National Park botanists both. “Betony, tufted vetch, bird’s foot trefoil, meadow cranesbill …” they listed the species. Embroidered with purples, vivid blues and sun yellows, the wayside looked like a magic carpet unrolling itself up the hill. This is what the hayfields would have looked like 100 years ago. Bikes invite all of us to become amateur botanists, and the next week I rode back for a second look. When I got to the mulberry tree, I saw that the verges had been cut. All the flowers gone. Instead